As it stands, both Kopplin and Peterson are planning on leading a third, nearly identical repeal effort over the coming months. There's little indication that this one will make it out of committee.
"Zack does very well," Mills continued. "The problem is, he's lost every single time in the court of public opinion...There are only so many times you can tell everybody they're dumb and still prevail in a popular vote."
Photo courtesy of Andrea Neighbours
Zack Kopplin took an early interest in both the natural and the prehistoric world.
Photo courtesy of Andrea Neighbours
His childhood fascination with dinosaurs and fossils helped spur his current opposition to publicly funded creationism.
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For what it's worth, Kopplin has never resorted to ad hominem attacks against any opponents (despite earning "anti-Christ" monikers from his more unhinged detractors). He doesn't even discount the notion of creationism within a private education — his isn't some Hitchensian crusade against all things religion.
Sure, he wishes he could go back and redirect these creationists' educations. But he's perfectly willing to allow them their space and their education. So long as it's kept within the private sphere.
That's why he has now turned to Louisiana's voucher system. The program, which went into effect in 2012, has caused as great a rift within that state as the LSEA has. Teachers' unions have filed lawsuits. Leaked e-mails show the state Education Superintendent's office trying to "muddy the waters" of the media's investigations. One state legislator objected to funds going to an Islamic school because, as she put it, it wouldn't teach "the fundamentals of America's Founding Fathers' religion, which is Christianity."
"Hearing that now we want to be more like Louisiana, that's the first time I think I've heard any legislator say that Texas wants to be like any other state," Gonzalez says. "It's really hard for me to hear any self-respecting Texan say that we want to be like anybody else. It's just not in our genetic makeup."
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It's early February, and Senator Patrick is finally leaving the "school choice" symposium. He's still offering anecdotes about the necessity of choice, of the national groundswell that's swept these ideas into both his platform and his governor's stump.
And then Kopplin's name comes up, and the descriptions of this 19-year-old's work and his stances come out. And Patrick cuts it short. "I don't know who that is," he says.
Which is interesting, considering Kopplin's proximity and growing fame. And it's all the stranger considering that both Patrick and Kopplin had spoken in a public arena just a few months earlier.
It was late August, when Patrick was first hinting at the agenda to come. A public hearing was called in Austin on the merits of vouchers. Kopplin wasn't asked to attend. He went anyway.
The hearings began at 9 a.m., with a steady string of invited testimony dragging on about the intransigence of unions and the panacea of vouchers. Six hours later, ears burning from the invited stream of voucher backers, Kopplin walked to the microphone.
The crowd had thinned. Patrick, one of the few pols remaining on the dais, was directing questions and asked Kopplin to begin. Patrick allowed Kopplin to run for nearly 90 seconds before the senator broke off the discussion.
"Now, this is only Louisiana, right?" Patrick interrupted, looking down at the 19-year-old.
Kopplin paused. "As far as I know, yes."
And it was, at the time. Kopplin hadn't yet researched other states, hadn't yet delved into the thousands of private schools across the nation receiving some form of public subsidy.
Six months later, Kopplin points to a list he's posted online that shares the names and information of more than 300 voucher schools around the U.S. that serve their publicly funded students with some form of antiscientific sectarianism.
There's one in Indiana teaching that the Bible is "wholly without error." There's one in Wisconsin that teaches that "evolutionists are 'stuck' because they have no god." There's one in Florida — another state to which Patrick points, time and again, for inspiration — that exists "to evangelize non-Christian students." All of these, hundreds of these, receive funding from public tax dollars.
"Honestly, there are thousands of schools, and I missed a lot," Kopplin says, noting that his research is ongoing. "There are probably 2,000 [voucher] schools nationwide, and probably half are creationist."
Unfortunately, as Kopplin also observes, such an education isn't limited to the kinds of schools Patrick's vouchers and scholarships will likely fund. A recent report by the Texas Freedom Network showed that dozens of public school districts across Texas have offered some form of Christian proselytization, purveying jingoistic Christian nationalism and distinct anti-Jewish biases.
Likewise, Barbara Cargill, chair of the State Board of Education, revealed on January 31 that the board hasn't yet reneged on trying to instill creationism in public textbooks. (For what it's worth, Don McLeroy, the erstwhile SBOE chair and creationist extraordinaire, has come out in support of a voucher plan.) After looking through one of the educational management curricula used in the state, Cargill shared her anti-intellectual concern.
"Our intent, as far as theories with the [curriculum standards], was to teach all sides of scientific explanations," she opined. "But when I went on [the educational management Web site] last night, I couldn't see anything that might be seen as another side to the theory of evolution."